MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 


Copyright,  Henry  Holt  and  Company 


ROBERT  FROST 

From  the  original  in  plaster 
by  AROLDO  Du  CHENE 


MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 


BY 

ROBERT  FROST 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  1921 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

May,  1931 

REPLACING 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.    S.    A.    BY 

THE    QUINN    a    BODEN    COMPANY 

RAHWAY.     N.    J. 


P5  3  « 1 1 


TO  YOU 

WHO   LEAST   NEED  REMINDING 

that  before  this  interval  of  the  South  Branch  under 
black  mountains,  there  was  another  interval,  the 
Upper  at  Plymouth,  where  we  walked  in  spring  be 
yond  the  covered  bridge;  but  that  the  first  interval 
of  all  was  the  old  farm,  our  brook  interval,  so  called 
by  the  man  we  had  it  from  in  sale. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  ROAD  NOT  TAKEN 9 

CHRISTMAS  TREES 11 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  WINTER  NIGHT 14 

A  PATCH  OF  OLD  SNOW 15 

IN  THE  HOME  STRETCH 16 

THE   TELEPHONE       .  ..     .     .     ,    -     > 24 

MEETING  AND  PASSING     . 25 

HYLA  BROOK    ...... '  .„     .     . 26 

THE  OVEN  BIRD    .'.... 27 

BOND  AND  FREE 23 

BIRCHES   .................  29 

PEA   BRUSH       ....     ..   ..........  31 

PUTTING  IN  THE  SEED 32 

A  TIME  TO  TALK      ...     .     .     .     .......  33 

THE  COW  IN  APPLE  TIME  .     .........  34 

AN  ENCOUNTER      .     .     .     .     .     .     .        .     ....     .  35 

RANGE-FINDING     .     .     .     .    .....    .    .    ...  36 

THE  HILL  WIFE    ...*.......,..  37 

I    LONELINESS -HER  WORD 37 

II    HOUSE  FEAR 37 

III  THE  SMILE  — HER  WORD 38 

IV  THE  OFT  REPEATED  DREAM 38 

V    THE   IMPULSE 39 

THE  BONFIRE   .  41 


CONTENTS 


A  GIRL'S  GARDEN .     *     ...  45 

THE  EXPOSED  NEST 48 

"OUT,  OUT— " *.....  50 

BROWN'S  DESCENT  OR  THE  WILLY-NILLY  SLIDE      .     .  52 

THE  GUM-GATHERER 56 

THE  LINE-GANG 58 

THE  VANISHING  RED 59 

SNOW 61 

THE  SOUND  OF  THE  TREES  75 


THE  ROAD  NOT  TAKEN 

Two  roads  diverged  in  a  yellow  wood. 
And  sorry  I  could  not  travel  both 
And  be  one  traveler,  long  I  stood 
And  looked  down  one  as  far  as  I  could 
To  where  it  bent  in  the  undergrowth; 


Then  took  the  other,  as  just  as  fair, 
And  having  perhaps  the  better  claim, 
Because  it  was  grassy  and  wanted  wear; 
Though  as  for  that  the  passing  there 
Had  worn  them  really  about  the  same, 


And  both  that  morning  equally  lay 
In  leaves  no  step  had  trodden  black. 
Oh,  I  kept  the  first  for  another  day! 
Yet  knowing  how  way  leads  on  to  way, 
I  doubted  if  I  should  ever  come  back. 


I  shall  be  telling  this  with  a  sigh 

Somewhere  ages  and  ages  hence: 

Two  roads  diverged  in  a  wood,  and  /  — 

1  took  the  one  less  traveled  by, 

And  that  has  made  all  the  difference. 


CHRISTMAS  TREES 
(A  Christmas  Circular  Letter) 

THE  city  had  withdrawn  into  itself 
And  left  at  last  the  country  to  the  country; 
When  between  whirls  of  snow  not  come  to  lie 
And  whirls  of  foliage  not  yet  laid,  there  drove 
A  stranger  to  our  yard,  who  looked  the  city, 
Yet  did  in  country  fashion  in  that  there 
He  sat  and  waited  till  he  drew  us  out 
A-buttoning  coats  to  ask  him  who  he  was. 
He  proved  to  be  the  city  come  again 
To  look  for  something  it  had  left  behind 
And  could  not  do  without  and  keep  its  Christmas. 
He  asked  if  I  would  sell  my  Christmas  trees; 
My  woods  —  the  young  fir  balsams  like  a  place 
Where  houses  all  are  churches  and  have  spires. 
I  hadn't  thought  of  them  as  Christmas  Trees. 
I  doubt  if  I  was  tempted  for  a  moment 
To  sell  them  off  their  feet  to  go  in  cars 
And  leave  the  slope  behind  the  house  all  bare, 
Where  the  sun  shines  now  no  warmer  than  the  moon. 
I'd  hate  to  have  them  know  it  if  I  was. 
Yet  more  I'd  hate  to  hold  my  trees  except 
As  others  hold  theirs  or  refuse  for  them, 
Beyond  the  time  of  profitable  growth, 
The  trial  by  market  everything  must  come  to. 
I  dallied  so  much  with  the  thought  of  selling. 

11 


12  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

Then  whether  from  mistaken  courtesy 
And  fear  of  seeming  short  of  speech,  or  whether 
From  hope  of  hearing  good  of  what  was  mine, 
I  said,  "  There  aren't  enough  to  be  worth  while." 
"  I  could  soon  tell  how  many  they  would  cut, 
You  let  me  look  them  over." 

"  You  could  look. 

But  don't  expect  I'm  going  to  let  you  have  them." 
Pasture  they  spring  in,  some  in  clumps  too  close 
That  lop  each  other  of  boughs,  but  not  a  few 
Quite  solitary  and  having  equal  boughs 
All  round  and  round.     The  latter  he  nodded  "  Yes "  to, 
Or  paused  to  say  beneath  some  lovelier  one, 
With  a  buyer's  moderation,  "  That  would  do." 
I  thought  so  too,  but  wasn't  there  to  say  so. 
We  climbed  the  pasture  on  the  south,  crossed  over, 
And  came  down  on  the  north. 

He  said,  "A  thousand." 

"A  thousand  Christmas  trees! — at  what  apiece?" 

He  felt  some  need  of  softening  that  to  me: 

"  A  thousand  trees  would  come  to  thirty  dollars." 

Then  I  was  certain  I  had  never  meant 

To  let  him  have  them.     Never  show  surprise! 

But  thirty  dollars  seemed  so  small  beside 

The  extent  of  pasture  I  should  strip,  three  cents 

(For  that  was  all  they  figured  out  apiece), 

Three  cents  so  small  beside  the  dollar  friends 


CHRISTMAS  TREES  13 

I  should  be  writing  to  within  the  hour 

Would  pay  in  cities  for  good  trees  like  those, 

Regular  vestry-trees  whole  Sunday  Schools 

Could  hang  enough  on  to  pick  off  enough. 

A  thousand  Christmas  trees  I  didn't  know  I  had! 

Worth  three  cents  more  to  give  away  than  sell, 

As  may  be  shown  by  a  simple  calculation. 

Too  bad  I  couldn't  lay  one  in  a  letter. 

I  can't  help  wishing  I  could  send  you  one, 

In  wishing  you  herewith  a  Merry  Christmas. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  WINTER  NIGHT 

ALL  out  of  doors  looked  darkly  in  at  him 
Through  the  thin  frost,  almost  in  separate  stars, 
That  gathers  on  the  pane  in  empty  rooms. 
What  kept  his  eyes  from  giving  back  the  gaze 
Was  the  lamp  tilted  near  them  in  his  hand. 
What  kept  him  from  remembering  what  it  was 
That  brought  him  to  that  creaking  room  was  age. 
He  stood  with  barrels  round  him  —  at  a  loss. 
And  having  scared  the  cellar  under  him 
In  clomping  there,  he  scared  it  once  again 
In  clomping  off;  —  and  scared  the  outer  night, 
Which  has  its  sounds,  familiar,  like  the  roar 
Of  trees  and  crack  of  branches,  common  things, 
But  nothing  so  like  beating  on  a  box. 
A  light  he  was  to  no  one  but  himself 
Where  now  he  sat,  concerned  with  he  knew  what, 
A  quiet  light,  and  then  not  even  that. 
He  consigned  to  the  moon,  such  as  she  was, 
So  late-arising,  to  the  broken  moon 
As  better  than  the  sun  in  any  case 
For  such  a  charge,  his  snow  upon  the  roof, 
His  icicles  along  the  wall  to  keep; 
And  slept.     The  log  that  shifted  with  a  jolt 
Once  in  the  stove,  disturbed  him  and  he  shifted, 
And  eased  his  heavy  breathing,  but  still  slept. 
One  aged  man  —  one  man  —  can't  fill  a  house, 
A  farm,  a  countryside,  or  if  he  can, 
It's  thus  he  does  it  of  a  winter  night. 
14 


A  PATCH  OF  OLD  SNOW 

THERE'S  a  patch   of  old  snow  in   a  corner 

That  I  should  have  guessed 
Was  a  blow-away  paper  the  rain 

Had  brought  to  rest. 


It  is  speckled  with  grime  as  if 
Small  print  overspread  it, 

The  news  of  a  day  I've  forgotten  — 
If  I  ever  read  it. 


16 


IN  THE  HOME  STRETCH 

SHE  stood  against  the  kitchen  sink,  and  looked 

Over  the  sink  out  through  a  dusty  window 

At  weeds  the  water  from  the  sink  made  tall. 

She  wore  her  cape;  her  hat  was  in  her  hand. 

Behind  her  was  confusion  in  the  room, 

Of  chairs  turned  upside  down  to  sit  like  people 

In  other  chairs,  and  something,  come  to  look, 

For  every  room  a  house  has  —  parlor,  bed-room, 

And  dining-room  —  thrown   pell-mell   in   the  kitchen. 

And  now  and  then  a  smudged,  infernal  face 

Looked  in  a  door  behind  her  and  addressed 

Her  back.     She  always   answered  without  turning. 


"  Where  will  I  put  this  walnut  bureau,  lady?  " 

"  Put  it  on  top  of  something  that's  on  top 

Of  something  else,"  she  laughed.     "  Oh,  put  it  where 

You  can  to-night,   and  go.     It's  almost  dark; 

You  must  be  getting  started  back  to  town." 

Another  blackened  face  thrust  in  and  looked 

And  smiled,  and  when  she  did  not  turn,  spoke  gently, 

"  What  are  you  seeing  out  the  window,  lady?  " 


"Never  was  I  beladied  so  before. 
Would  evidence  of  having  been  called  lady 
More  than  so  many  times  make  me  a  ladv 
In  common  law.  I  wonder." 

16 


IN  THE  HOME  STRETCH  17 

"But  I  ask, 
What  are  you  seeing  out  the  window,  lady?  " 

"  What  I'll  be  seeing  more  of  in  the  years 
To  come  as  here  I  stand  and  go  the  round 
Of  many  plates  with  towels  many  times." 

"And  what  is  that?     You  only  put  me  off." 

"  Rank  weeds  that  love  the  water  from  the  dish-pan 
More  than  some  women  like  the  dish-pan,  Joe; 
A  little  stretch  of  mowing-field  for  you; 
Not  much  of  that  until  I  come  to  woods 
That  end  all.     And  it's  scarce  enough  to  call 
A  view." 

"And  yet  you  think  you  like  it,  dear?  " 

"That's  what  you're  so   concerned   to   know!     You   hope 

I  like  it.     Bang  goes  something  big  away 

Off  there  upstairs.     The  very  tread  of  men 

As  great  as  those  is  shattering  to  the  frame 

Of  such  a  little  house.     Once  left  alone, 

You  and  I,  dear,  will  go  with  softer  steps 

Up  and  down  stairs  and  through  the  rooms,  and  none 

But  sudden  winds  that  snatch  them  from  our  hands 

Will  ever  slam  the  doors." 

"  I  think  you  see 
More  than  you  like  to  own  to  out  that  window." 

"  No ;  for  besides  the  things  I  tell  you  of, 
I  only  see  the  years.     They  come  and  go 
In  alternation  with  the  weeds,  the  field, 
The  wood." 


18  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

"What  kind  of  years?" 

"Why,  latter  years  — 
Different  from  early  years." 

"  I  see  them,  too. 
You  didn't  count  them?  " 

"  No,  the  further  off 
So  ran  together  that  I  didn't  try  to. 
It  can  scarce  be  that  they  would  be  in  number 
We'd  care  to  know,  for  we  are  not  young  now. 
And  bang  goes  something  else  away  off  there. 
It  sounds  as  if  it  were  the  men  went  down, 
And  every  crash  meant  one  less  to  return 
To  lighted  city  streets  we,  too,  have  known, 
But  now  are  giving  up  for  country  darkness." 

"  Come  from  that  window  where  you  see  too  much  for  me, 

And  take  a  livelier  view  of  things  from  here. 

They're  going.     Watch   this  husky  swarming  up 

Over  the  wheel  into  the  sky-high  seat, 

Lighting  his  pipe  now,  squinting  down  his  nose 

At  the  flame  burning  downward  as  he  sucks  it." 

"  See  how  it  makes  his  nose-side  bright,  a  proof 

How  dark  it's  getting.     Can  you  tell  what  time 

It  is  by  that?     Or  by  the  moon?     The  new  moon! 

What  shoulder  did  I  see  her  over?     Neither. 

A  wire  she  is  of  silver,  as  new  as  we 

To  everything.     Her  light  won't  last  us  long. 

It's  something,  though,  to  know  we're  going  to  have  her 

Night  after  night  and  stronger  every  night 

To  see  us  through  our  first  two  weeks.     But,  Joe, 

The  stove!     Before  they  go!     Knock  on  the  window; 

Ask  them  to  help  you  get  it  on  its  feet. 

We  stand  here  dreaming.     Hurry!     Call  them  back!  " 

"They're  not  gone  yet." 


IN  THE  HOME  STRETCH  19 

"  We've  got  to  have  the  stove, 
Whatever  else  we  want  for.     And  a  light. 
Have  we  a  piece  of  candle  if  the  lamp 
And  oil  are  buried  out  of  reach?  " 

Again 

The  house  was  full  of  tramping,  and  the  dark, 
Door-filling  men  burst  in  and  seized  the  stove. 
A  cannon-mouth-like  hole  was  in  the  wall, 
To  which  they  set  it  true  by  eye;  and  then 
Came  up  the  jointed  stovepipe  in  their  hands, 
So  much  too  light  and  airy  for  their  strength 
It  almost  seemed  to  come  ballooning  up, 
Slipping  from  clumsy  clutches  toward  the  ceiling. 
"A  fit !  "  said  one,  and  banged  a  stovepipe  shoulder. 
"  It's  good  luck  when  you  move  in  to  begin 
With  good  luck  with  your  stovepipe.     Never  mind, 
It's  not  so  bad  in  the  country,  settled  down, 
When  people  're  getting  on  in  life.     You'll  like  it." 
Joe  said :     "  You  big  boys  ought  to  find  a  farm, 
And  make  good  farmers,  and  leave  other  fellows 
The  city  work  to  do.     There's  not  enough 
For  everybody  as  it  is  in  there." 
"God!  "  one  said  wildly,  and,  when  no  one  spoke: 
"  Say  that  to  Jimmy  here.     He  needs  a  farm." 
But  Jimmy  only  made  his  jaw  recede 
Fool-like,  and  rolled  his  eyes  as  if  to  say 
He  saw  himself  a  farmer.     Then  there  was  a  French  boy 
Who  said  with  seriousness  that  made  them  laugh, 
"  Ma  friend,  you  ain't  know  what  it  is  you're  ask." 
He  doffed  his  cap  and  held  it  with  both  hands 
Across  his  chest  to  make  as  'twere  a  bow: 
"  We're  giving  you  our  chances  on  de  farm." 
And  then   they  all  turned  to   with  deafening  boots 
And  put  each  other  bodily  out  of  the  house. 
"  Goodby  to  them !     We  puzzle  them.     They  think  — 


20  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

I  don't  know  what  they  think  we  see  in  what 
They  leave  us  to:  that  pasture  slope  that  seems 
The  back  some  farm  presents  us;  and  your  woods 
To  northward  from  your  window  at  the  sink, 
Waiting  to  steal  a  step  on  us  whenever 
We  drop  our  eyes  or  turn  to  other  things, 
As  in  the  game  '  Ten-step  '  the  children  play." 

"  Good  boys  they  seemed,  and  let  them  love  the  city. 
All  they  could  say  was  'God!  '  when  you  proposed 
Their  coming  out  and  making  useful  farmers." 

"  Did  they  make  something  lonesome  go  through  you? 

It  would  take  more  than  them  to  sicken  you  — 

Us  of  our  bargain.     But  they  left  us  so 

As  to   our  fate,   like  fools  past  reasoning  with. 

They  almost  shook  me.'" 

"  It's  all  so  much 

What  we  have  always  wanted,  I  confess 
It's  seeming  bad  for  a  moment  makes  it  seem 
Even  worse  still,  and  so  on  down,  down,  down. 
It's  nothing;  it's  their  leaving  us  at  dusk. 
I  never  bore  it  well  when  people  went. 
The  first  night  after  guests  have  gone,  the  house 
Seems  haunted  or  exposed.     I  always  take 
A  personal  interest  in  the  locking  up 
At  bedtime;  but  the  strangeness  soon  wears  off." 
He  fetched  a  dingy  lantern  from  behind 
A  door.     "There's  that  we  didn't  lose!     And  these!"— 
Some  matches  he  unpocketed.     "  For  food  — 
The  meals  we've  had  no  one  can  take  from  us. 
I  wish  that  everything  on  earth  were  just 
As  certain  as  the  meals  we've  had.     I  wish 


IN  THE  HOME  STRETCH  21 

The  meals  we  haven't  had  were,  anyway. 

What  have  you  you  know  where  to  lay  your  hands  on?  " 

"  The  bread  we  bought  in  passing  at  the  store. 
There's  butter  somewhere,  too." 

"  Let's  rend  the  bread. 
I'll  light  the  fire  for  company  for  you; 
You'll  not  have  any  other  company 
Till  Ed  begins  to  get  out  on  a  Sunday 
To  look  us  over  and  give  us  his  idea 
Of  what  wants  pruning,  shingling,  breaking  up. 
He'll  know  what  he  would  do  if  he  were  we, 
And  all  at  once.     He'll  plan  for  us  and  plan 
To  help  us,  but  he'll  take  it  out  in  planning. 
Well,  you  can  set  the  table  with  the  loaf. 
Let's  see  you  find  your  loaf.     I'll  light  the  fire. 
I  like  chairs  occupying  other  chairs 
Not  offering  a  lady  — " 

"  There  again,  Joe ! 
You  re  tired." 

"I'm  drunk-nonsensical  tired  out; 
Don't  mind  a  word  I  say.     It's  a  day's  work 
To  empty  one  house  of  all  household  goods 
And  fill  another  with  'em  fifteen  miles  away, 
Although  you  do  no  more  than  dump  them  down." 

"  Dumped  down  in  paradise  we  are  and  happy." 

"  It's  all  so  much  what  I  have  always  wanted, 
I  can't  believe  it's  what  you  wanted,  too." 

"Shouldn't  you  like  to  know?" 


22  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

"  I'd  like  to  know 

If  it  is  what  you  wanted,  then  how  much 
You  wanted  it  for  me." 

"A  troubled  conscience! 
You  don't  want  me  to  tell  if  /  don't  know." 

"  I  don't  want  to  find  out  what  can't  be  known. 
But  who  first  said  the  word  to  come?  " 

"  My  dear, 

It's  who  first  thought  the  thought.     You're  searching,  Joe, 
For  things  that  don't  exist;   I  mean  beginnings. 
Ends  and  beginnings  —  there  are  no  such  things. 
There  are  only  middles." 

"What  is  this?" 

"  This  life? 

Our  sitting  here  by  lantern-light  together 
Amid  the  wreckage  of  a  former  home? 
You  won't  deny  the  lantern  isn't  new. 
The  stove  is  not,  and  you  are  not  to  me, 
Nor  I  to  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  never  were?  " 

"  It  would  take  me  forever  to  recite 
All  that's  not  new  in  where  we  find  ourselves. 
New  is  a  word  for  fools  in  towns  who  think 
Style  upon  style  in  dress  and  thought  at  last 
Must  get  somewhere.     I've  heard  you  say  as  much. 
No,  this  is  no  beginning." 

"Then  an  end?" 


IN  THE  HOME  STRETCH  23 

"  End  is  a  gloomy  word." 

"  Is  it  too  late 

To  drag  you  out  for  just  a  good-night  call 
On  the  old  peach  trees  on  the  knoll  to  grope 
By  starlight  in  the  grass  for  a  last  peach 
The  neighbors  may  not  have  taken  as  their  right 
When  the  house  wasn't  lived  in?     I've  been  looking: 
I  doubt  if  they  have  left  us  many  grapes. 
Before  we  set  ourselves  to  right  the  house, 
The  first  thing  in  the  morning,  out  we  go 
To  go  the  round  of  apple,  cherry,  peach, 
Pine,  alder,  pasture,  mowing,  well,  and  brook. 
All  of  a  farm  it  is." 

"  I  know  this  much : 
I'm  going  to  put  you  in  your  bed,  if  first 
I  have  to  make  you  build  it.     Come,  the  light." 

When  there  was  no  more  lantern  in  the  kitchen, 
The  fire  got  out  through  crannies  in  the  stove 
And  danced  in  yellow  wrigglers  on  the  ceiling, 
As  much  at  home  as  if  they'd  always  danced  there. 


THE  TELEPHONE 

"WHEN  I  was  just  as  far  as  I  could  walk 

From  here  to-day, 

There  was  an  hour 

All  still 

When  leaning  with  my  head  against  a  flower 

I  heard  you  talk. 

Don't  say  I  didn't,  for  I  heard  you  say  — 

You  spoke  from  that  flower  on  the  window  sill 

DC  you  remember  what  it  was  you  said?  " 


First  tell  me  what  it  was  you  thought  you  heard." 


"  Having  found  the  flower  and  driven  a  bee  away, 

I  leaned  my  head, 

And  holding  by  the  stalk, 

I  listened  and  I  thought  I  caught  the  word  — 

What  was  it?     Did  you  call  me  by  my  name? 

Or  did  you  say  — 

Someone  said  '  Come ' —  I  heard  it  as  I  bowed." 


*  I  may  have  thought  as  much,  but  not  aloud.' 
"  Well,  so  I  came," 

24 


MEETING  AND  PASSING 

As  I  went  down  the  hill  along  the  wall 
There  was  a  gate  I  had  leaned  at  for  the  view 
And  had  just  turned  from  when  I  first  saw  you 
As  you  came  up  the  hill.     We  met.     But  all 
We  did  that  day  was  mingle  great  and  small 
Footprints  in  summer  dust  as  if  we  drew 
The  figure  of  our  being  less  than  two 
But  more  than  one  as  yet.     Your  parasol 


Pointed  the  decimal  off  with  one  deep  thrust. 
And  all  the  time  we  talked  you  seemed  to  see 
Something  down  there  to  smile  at  in  the  dust 
(Oh,  it  was  without  prejudice  to  me!) 
Afterward  I  went  past  what  you  had  passed 
Before  we  met  and  you  what  I  had  passed. 


25 


HYLA  BROOK 

BY  Jtine  our  brook's  run  out  of  song  and  speed. 

Sought  for  much  after  that,  it  will  be  found 

Either  to  have  gone  groping  underground 

(And  taken  with  it  all  the  Hyla  breed 

That  shouted  in  the  mist  a  month  ago, 

Like  ghost  of  sleigh-bells  in  a  ghost  of  snow)  — 

Or  flourished  and  come  up  in  jewel-weed, 

Weak  foliage  that  is  blown  upon  and  bent 

Even  against  the  way  its  waters  went. 

Its  bed  is  left  a  faded  paper  sheet 

Of  dead  leaves  stuck  together  by  the  heat  — 

A  brook  to  none  but  who  remember  long. 

This  as  it  will  be  seen  is  other  far 

Than  with  brooks  taken  otherwhere  in  song. 

We  love  the  things  we  love  for  what  they  are. 


26 


THE  OVEN  BIRD 

THERE  is  a  singer  everyone  has  heard, 

Loud,  a  mid-summer  and  a  mid-wood  bird, 

Who  makes  the  solid  tree  trunks  sound  again. 

He  says  that  leaves  are  old  and  that  for  flowers 

Mid-summer  is  to  spring  as  one  to  ten. 

He  says  the  early  petal-fall  is  past 

When  pear  and  cherry  bloom  went  down  in  showers 

On  sunny  days  a  moment  overcast; 

And  comes  that  other  fall  we  name  the  fall. 

He  says  the  highway  dust  is  over  all. 

The  bird  would  cease  and  be  as  other  birds 

But  that  he  knows  in  singing  not  to  sing. 

The  question  that  he  frames  in  all  but  words 

Is  what  to  make  of  a  diminished  thing. 


27 


BOND  AND  FREE 

LOVE  has  earth  to  which  she  clings 

With  hills  and  circling  arms  about  — 

Wall  within  wall  to  shut  fear  out. 

But  Thought  has  need  of  no  such  things, 

For  Thought  has  a  pair  of  dauntless  wings. 


On  snow  and  sand  and  turf,  I  see 
Where  Love  has  left  a  printed  trace 
With  straining  in  the  world's  embrace. 
And  such  is  Love  and  glad  to  be. 
But  Thought  has  shaken  his  ankles  free. 


Thought  cleaves  the  interstellar  gloom 
And  sits  in  Sirius'  disc  all  night, 
Till  day  makes  him  retrace  his  flight, 
With  smell  of  burning  on  every  plume, 
Back  past  the  sun  to  an  earthly  room. 


His  gains  in  heaven  are  what  they  are. 
Yet  some  say  Love  by  being  thrall 
And  simply  staying  possesses  all 
In  several  beauty  that  Thought  fares  far 
To  find  fused  in  another  star. 


28 


BIRCHES 

WHEN  I  see  birches  bend  to  left  and  right 
Across  the  lines  of  straighter  darker  trees, 
I  like  to  think  some  boy's  been  swinging  them. 
But  swinging  doesn't  bend  them  down  to  stay. 
Ice-storhis  do  that.     Often  you  must  have  seen  them 
Loaded  with  ice  a  sunny  winter  morning 
After  a  rain.     They  click  upon  themselves 
As  the  breeze  rises,  and  turn  many-colored 
As  the  stir  cracks  and  crazes  their  enamel. 
Soon   the   sun's   warmth   makes   them   shed   crystal   shells 
Shattering  and  avalanching  on  the  snow-crust  — 
Such  heaps  of  broken  glass  to  sweep  away 
You'd  think  the  inner  dome  of  heaven  had  fallen. 
They  are  dragged  to  the  withered  bracken  by  the  load, 
And  they  seem  not  to  break;  though  once  they  are  bowed 
So  low  for  long,  they  never  right  themselves: 
You  may  see  their  trunks  arching  in  the  woods 
Years  afterwards,  trailing  their  leaves  on  the  ground 
Like  girls  on  hands  and  knees  that  throw  their  hair 
Before  them  over  their  heads  to  dry  in  the  sun. 
But  I  was  going  to  say  when  Truth  broke  in 
With  all  her  matter-of-fact  about  the  ice-storm 
(Now  am  I  free  to  be  poetical?) 
I  should  prefer  to  have  some  boy  bend  them 
As  he  went  out  and  in  to  fetch  the  cows  — 
Some  boy  too  far  from  town  to  learn  baseball, 
Whose  only  play  was  what  he  found  himself, 
Summer  or  winter,  and  could  play  alone. 
One  by  one  he  subdued  his  father's  trees 

29 


30  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

By  riding  them  down  over  and  over  again 

Until  he  took  the  stiffness  out  of  them, 

And  not  one  but  hung  limp,  not  one  was  left 

For  him  to  conquer.     He  learned  all  there  was 

To  learn  about  not  launching  out  too  soon 

And  so  not  carrying  the  tree  away 

Clear  to  the  ground.     He  always  kept  his  poise 

To  the  top  branches,  climbing  carefully 

With  the  same  pains  you  use  to  fill  a  cup 

Up  to  the  brim,  and  even  above  the  brim. 

Then  he  flung  outward,  feet  first,  with  a  swish, 

Kicking  his  way  down  through  the  air  to  the  ground. 

So  was  I  once  myself  a  swinger  of  birches. 

And  so  I  dream  of  going  back  to  be. 

It's  when  I'm  weary  of  considerations, 

And  life  is  too  much  like  a  pathless  wood 

Where  your  face  burns  and  tickles  with  the  cobwebs 

Broken  across  it,  and  one  eye  is  weeping 

From  a  twig's  having  lashed  across  it  open. 

I'd  like  to  get  away  from  earth  awhile 

And  then  come  back  to  it  and  begin  over. 

May  no  fate  willfully  misunderstand  me 

And  half  grant  what  I  wish  and  snatch  me  away 

Not  to  return.     Earth's  the  right  place  for  love: 

I  don't  know  where  it's  likely  to  go  better. 

I'd  like  to  go  by  climbing  a  birch  tree, 

And  climb  black  branches  up  a  snow-white  trunk 

Toward  heaven,  till  the  tree  could  bear  no  more, 

But  dipped  its  top  and  set  me  down  again. 

That  would  be  good  both  going  and  coming  back. 

One  could  do  worse  than  be  a  swinger  of  birches. 


PEA  BRUSH 

I  WALKED  down  alone  Sunday  after  church 
To  the  place  where  John  has  been  cutting  trees 

To  see  for  myself  about  the  birch 

He  said  I  could  have  to  bush  my  peas. 

The  sun  in  the  new-cut  narrow  gap 

Was  hot  enough  for  the  first  of  May, 

And  stifling  hot  with  the  odor  of  sap 

From  stumps  still  bleeding  their  life  away. 

The  frogs  that  were  peeping  a  thousand  shrill 
Wherever  the  ground  was  low  and  wet, 

The  minute  they  heard  my  step  went  still 
To  watch  me  and  see  what  I  came  to  get. 

Birch  boughs  enough  piled  everywhere!  — 
All  fresh  and  sound  from  the  recent  axe. 

Time  someone  came  with  cart  and  pair 
And  got  them  off  the  wild  flower's  backs. 

They  might  be  good  for  garden  things 

To  curl  a  little  finger  round, 
The  same  as  you  seize  cat's-cradle  strings, 

And  lift  themselves  up  off  the  ground. 

Small  good  to  anything  growing  wild, 
They  were  crooking  many  a  trillium 

That  had  budded  before  the  boughs  were  piled 
And  since  it  was  coming  up  had  to  come. 
31 


PUTTING  IN  THE  SEED 

You  come  to  fetch  me  from  my  work  to-night 
When  supper's  on  the  table,  and  we'll  see 
If  I  can  leave  off  burying  the  white 
Soft  petals  fallen  from  the  apple  tree. 
(Soft  petals,  yes,  but  not  so  barren  quite, 
Mingled  with  these,  smooth  bean  and  wrinkled  pea;) 
And  go  along  with  you  ere  you  lose  sight 
Of  what  you  came  for  and  become  like  me, 
Slave  to  a  springtime  passion  for  the  earth. 
How  Love  burns  through  the  Putting  in  the  Seed 
On  through  the  watching  for  that  early  birth 
When,  just  as  the  soil  tarnishes  with  weed, 

The  sturdy  seedling  with  arched  body  comes 
Shouldering  its  way  and  shedding  the  earth  crumbs. 


32 


A  TIME  TO  TALK 

WHEN  a  friend  calls  to  me  from  the  road 

And  slows  his  horse  to  a  meaning  walk, 

I  don't  stand  still  and  look  around 

On  all  the  hills  I  haven't  hoed, 

And  shout  from  where  I  am,  What  is  it? 

No,  not  as  there  is  a  time  to  talk. 

I  thrust  my  hoe  in  the  mellow  ground, 

Blade-end  up  and  five  feet  tall, 

And  plod:  I  go  up  to  the  stone  wall 

For  a  friendly  visit. 


THE  COW  IN  APPLE  TIME 

SOMETHING  inspires  the  only  cow  of  late 

To  make  no  more  of  a  wall  than  an  open  gate, 

And  think  no  more  of  wall-builders  than  fools. 

Her  face  is  flecked  with  pomace  and  she  drools 

A  cider  syrup.     Having  tasted  fruit, 

She  scorns  a  pasture  withering  to  the  root. 

She  runs  from  tree  to  tree  where  lie  and  sweeten 

The  windfalls  spiked  with  stubble  and  worm-eaten. 

She  leaves  them  bitten  when  she  has  to  fly. 

She  bellows  on  a  knoll  against  the  sky. 

Her  udder  shrivels  and  the  milk  goes  dry. 


34 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

ONCE  on  the  kind  of  day  called  "  weather  breeder," 

When  the  heat  slowly  hazes  and  the  sun 

By  its  own  power  seems  to  be  undone, 

I  was  half  boring  through,  half  climbing  through 

A  swamp  of  cedar.     Choked  with  oil  of  cedar 

And  scurf  of  plants,  and  weary  and  over-heated, 

And  sorry  I  ever  left  the  road  I  knew, 

I  paused  and  rested  on  a  sort  of  hook 

That  had  me  by  the  coat  as  good  as  seated, 

And  since  there  was  no  other  way  to  look, 

Looked  up  toward  heaven,  and  there  against  the  blue, 

Stood  over  me  a  resurrected  tree, 

A  tree  that  had  been  down  and  raised  again  — 

A  barkless  spectre.     He  had  halted  too, 

As  if  for  fear  of  treading  upon  me. 

I  saw  the  strange  position  of  his  hands  — 

Up  at  his   shoulders,   dragging  yellow  strands 

Of  wire  with  something  in  it  from  men  to  men. 

"You  here?"  I  said.     "Where  aren't  you  nowadays 

And  what's  the  news  you  carry  —  if  you  know? 

And  tell  me  where  you're  off  for  —  Montreal? 

Me?     I'm  not  off  for  anywhere  at  all. 

Sometimes  I  wander  out  of  beaten  ways 

Half  looking  for  the  orchid  Calypso." 


35 


RANGE-FINDING 

THE  battle  rent  a  cobweb  diamond-strung 

And  cut  a  flower  beside  a  ground  bird's  nest 

Before  it  stained  a  single  human  breast. 

The  stricken  flower  bent  double  and  so  hung. 

And  still  the  bird  revisited  her  young. 

A  butterfly  its  fall  had  dispossessed 

A  moment  sought  in  air  his  flower  of  rest, 

Then  lightly  stooped  to  it  and  fluttering  clung. 

On  the  bare  upland  pasture  there  had  spread 
O'ernight  'twixt  mullein  stalks  a  wheel  of  thread 
And  straining  cables  wet  with  silver  dew. 
A  sudden  passing  bullet  shook  it  dry. 
The  indwelling  spider  ran  to  greet  the  fly, 
But  finding  nothing,  sullenly  withdrew. 


THE  HILL  WIFE 

LONELINESS 

(Her  Word) 

ONE  ought  not  to  have  to  care 

So  much  as  you  and  I 
Care  when  the  birds  come  round  the  house 

To  seem  to  say  good-bye; 

Or  care  so  much  when  they  come  back 

With  whatever  it  is  they  sing; 
The  truth  being  we  are  as  much 

Too  glad  for  the  one  thing 

As  we  are  too  sad  for  the  other  here  — 
With  birds  that  fill  their  breasts 

But  with  each  other  and  themselves 
And  their  built  or  driven  nests. 


HOUSE   FEAR 

Always  —  I  tell  you  this  they  learned  — 
Always  at  night  when  they  returned 
To  the  lonely  house  from  far  away 
To  lamps  unlighted  and  fire  gone  gray, 
They  learned  to  rattle  the  lock  and  key 
To  give  whatever  might  chance  to  be 
37 


38  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

Warning  and  time  to  be  off  in  flight: 
And  preferring  the  out-  to  the  in-door  night, 
They  learned  to  leave  the  house-door  wide 
Until  they  had  lit  the  lamp  inside. 


THE   SMILE 

(Her  Word) 

I  didn't  like  the  way  he  went  away. 

That  smile!     It  never  came  of  being  gay. 

Still  he  smiled  —  did  you  see  him?  —  I  was  sure! 

Perhaps  because  we  gave  him  only  bread 

And  the  wretch  knew  from  that  that  we  were  poor. 

Perhaps  because  he  let  us  give  instead 

Of  seizing  from  us  as  he  might  have  seized. 

Perhaps  he  mocked  at  us  for  being  wed, 

Or  being  very  young   (and  he  was  pleased 

To  have  a  vision  of  us  old  and  dead). 

I  wonder  how  far  down  the  road  he's  got. 

He's  watching  from  the  woods  as  like  as  not. 


THE  OFT-REPEATED  DREAM 

She  had  no  saying  dark  enough 

For  the  dark  pine  that  kept 
Forever  trying  the  window-latch 

Of  the  room  where  they  slept. 

The  tireless  but  ineffectual  hands 

That  with  every  futile  pass 
Made  the  great  tree  seem  as  a  little  bird 

Before  the  mystery  of  glass! 


THE  HILL  WIFE  39 

It  never  had  been  inside  the  room, 

And   only   one  of  the  two 
Was  afraid  in  an  oft-repeated  dream 

Of  what  the  tree  might  do. 


THE   IMPULSE 

It  was  too  lonely  for  her  there, 

And  too  wild, 
And  since  there  were  but  two  of  them, 

And  no  child, 

And  work  was  little  in  the  house, 

She  was  free, 
And  followed  where  he  furrowed  field, 

Or  felled  tree. 

She  rested  on  a  log  and  tossed 

The  fresh  chips, 
With  a  song  only  to  herself 

On  her  lips. 

And  once  she  went  to  break  a  bough 

Of  black  alder. 
She  strayed  so  far  she  scarcely  heard 

When  he  called  her  — 

And  didn't  answer  —  didn't  speak  — 

Or  return.  ' 
She  stood,  and  then  she  ran  and  hid 

In  the  fern. 

He  never  found  her,  though  he  looked 

Everywhere, 
And  he  asked  at  her  mother's  house 

Was  she  there. 


40  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

Sudden  and  swift  and  light  as  that 

The  ties  gave, 
And  he  learned  of  finalities 

Besides  the  grave. 


THE  BONFIRE 

"  OH,  let's  go  up  the  hill  and  scare  ourselves, 

As  reckless  as  the  best  of  them  to-night, 

By  setting  fire  to  all  the  brush  we  piled 

With  pitchy  hands  to  wait  for  rain  or  snow. 

Oh,  let's  not  wait  for  rain  to  make  it  safe. 

The  pile  is  ours:  we  dragged  it  bough  on  bough 

Down  dark  converging  paths  between  the  pines. 

Let's  not  care  what  we  do  with  it  to-night. 

Divide  it?     No!     But  burn  it  as  one  pile 

The  way  we  piled  it.     And  let's  be  the  talk 

Of  people  brought  to  windows  by  a  light 

Thrown  from  somewhere  against  their  wall-paper. 

Rouse  them  all,  both  the  free  and  not  so  free 

With  saying  what  they'd  like  to  do  to  us 

For  what  they'd  better  wait  till  we  have  done. 

Let's  all  but  bring  to  life  this  old  volcano, 

If  that  is  what  the  mountain  ever  was  — 

And  scare  ourselves.     Let  wild  fire  loose  we  will.  .  .  ." 

"And  scare  you  too?  "  the  children  said  together. 

"  Why  wouldn't  it  scare  me  to  have  a  fire 
Begin  in  smudge  with  ropy  smoke  and  know 
That  still,  if  I  repent,  I  may  recall  it, 
But  in  a  moment  not:  a  little  spurt 
Of  burning  fatness,  and  then  nothing  but 
The  fire  itself  can  put  it  out,  and  that 
By  burning  out,  and  before  it  burns  out 
It  will  have  roared  first  and  mixed  sparks  with  stars, 
And  sweeping  round  it  with  a  flaming  sword, 
Made  the  dim  trees  stand  back  in  wider  circle  — 

41 


42  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

Done  so  much  and  I  know  not  how  much  more 

I  mean  it  shall  not  do  if  I  can  bind  it. 

Well  if  it  doesn't  with  its  draft  bring  on 

A  wind  to  blow  in  earnest  from  some  quarter, 

As  once  it  did  with  me  upon  an  April. 

The  breezes  were  so  spent  with  winter  blowing 

They  seemed  to  fail  the  bluebirds  under  them 

Short  of  the  perch  their  languid  flight  was  toward; 

And  my  flame  made  a  pinnacle  to  heaven 

As  I  walked  once  round  it  in  possession. 

But  the  wind  out  of  doors  —  you  know  the  saying. 

There  came  a  gust.     You  used  to  think  the  trees 

Made  wind  by  fanning  since  you  never  knew 

It  blow  but  that  you  saw  the  trees  in  motion. 

Something  or  someone  watching  made  that  gust. 

It  put  the  flame  tip-down  and  dabbed  the  grass 

Of  over-winter  with  the  least  tip-touch 

Your  tongue  gives  salt  or  sugar  in  your  hand. 

The  place  it  reached  to  blackened  instantly. 

The  black  was  all  there  was  by  day-light, 

That  and  the  merest  curl  of  cigarette  smoke  — 

And  a  flame  slender  as  the  hepaticas, 

Blood-root,  and  violets  so  soon  to  be  now. 

But  the  black  spread  like  black  death  on  the  ground, 

And  I  think  the  sky  darkened  with  a  cloud 

Like  winter  and  evening  coming  on  together. 

There  were  enough  things  to  be  thought  of  then. 

Where  the  field  stretches  toward  the  north 

And  setting  sun  to  Hyla  brook,  I  gave  it 

To  flames  without  twice  thinking,  where  it  verges 

Upon  the  road,  to  flames  too,  though  in  fear 

They  might  find  fuel  there,  in  withered  brake, 

Grass  its  full  length,  old  silver  golden-rod, 

And  alder  and  grape  vine  entanglement, 

To  leap  the  dusty  deadline.     For  my  own 


THE  BONFIRE  43 

I  took  what  front  there  was  beside.     I  knelt 

And  thrust  hands  in  and  held  my  face  away. 

Fight  such  a  fire  by  rubbing  not  by  beating. 

A  board  is  the  best  weapon  if  you  have  it. 

I  had  my  coat.     And  oh,  I  knew,  I  knew, 

And  said  out  loud,  I  couldn't  bide  the  smother 

And  heat  so  close  in;  but  the  thought  of  all 

The  woods  and  town  on  fire  by  me,  and  all 

The  town  turned  out  to  fight  for  me  —  that  held  me. 

I  trusted  the  brook  barrier,  but  feared 

The  road  would  fail ;  and  on  that  side  the  fire 

Died  not  without  a  noise  of  crackling  wood  — 

Of  something  more  than  tinder-grass  and  weed  — 

That  brought  me  to  my  feet  to  hold  it  back 

By  leaning  back  myself,  as  if  the  reins 

Were  round  my  neck  and  I  was  at  the  plough. 

I  won!     But  I'm  sure  no  one  ever  spread 

Another  color  over  a  tenth  the  space 

That  I  spread  coal-black  over  in  the  time 

It  took  me.     Neighbors  coming  home  from  town 

Couldn't  believe  that  so  much  black  had  come  there 

While  they  had  backs  turned,  that  it  hadn't  been  there 

When  they  had  passed  an  hour  or  so  before 

Going  the  other  way  and  they  not  seen  it. 

They  looked  about  for  someone  to  have  done  it. 

But  there  was  no  one.     I  was  somewhere  wondering 

Where  all  my  weariness  had  gone  and  why 

I  walked  so  light  on  air  in  heavy  shoes 

In  spite  of  a  scorched  Fourth-of-July  feeling. 

Why  wouldn't  I  be  scared  remembering  that?  " 

"  If  it  scares  you,  what  will  it  do  to  us?  " 

"  Scare  you.     But  if  you  shrink  from  being  scared, 
What  would  you  say  to  war  if  it  should  come? 


44  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

That's  what  for  reasons  I  should  like  to  know  — 
If  you  can  comfort  me  by  any  answer." 

"  Oh,  but  war's  not  for  children  —  it's  for  men." 

"  Now  we  are  digging  almost  down  to  China. 

My  dears,  my  dears,  you  thought  that  —  we  all  thought  it. 

So  your  mistake  was  ours.     Haven't  you  heard,  though, 

About  the  ships  where  war  has  found  them  out 

At  sea,  about  the  towns  where  war  has  come 

Through   opening   clouds   at   night  with   droning   speed 

Further  o'erhead  than  all  but  stars  and  angels, — 

And  children  in  the  ships  and  in  the  towns? 

Haven't  you  heard  what  we  have  lived  to  learn? 

Nothing  so  new  —  something  we  had  forgotten : 

War  is  for  everyone,  for  children  too. 

I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you  and  I  mustn't. 

The  best  way  is  to  come  up  hill  with  me 

And  have  our  fire  and  laugh  and  be  afraid." 


A  GIRL'S  GARDEN 

A  NEIGHBOR  of  mine  in  the  village 
Likes  to  tell  how  one  spring 

When  she  was  a  girl  on  the  farm,  she  did 
A  childlike  thing. 


One  day  she  asked  her  father 
To  give  her  a  garden  plot 

To  plant  and  tend  and  reap  herself, 
And  he  said,  "Why  not?" 


In  casting  about  for  a  corner 

He  thought  of  an  idle  bit 
Of  walled-off  ground   where  a   shop   had   stood, 

And  he  said,  "  Just  it." 


And  he  said,  "  That  ought  to  make  you 

An  ideal  one-girl  farm, 
And  give  you  a  chance  to  put  some  strength 

On  your  slim-jim  arm." 


It  was  not  enough  of  a  garden, 
Her  father  said,  to  plough; 

So  she  had  to  work  it  all  by  hand, 
But  she  don't  mind  now. 

45  ' 


46  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

She  wheeled  the  dung  in  the  wheelbarrow 

Along  a  stretch  of  road; 
But  she  always  ran  away  and  left 

Her  not-nice  load. 


And  hid  from  anyone  passing. 

And  then  she  begged  the  seed. 
She  says  she  thinks  she  planted  one 

Of  all  things  but  weed. 


A  hill  each  of  potatoes, 

Radishes,  lettuce,  peas, 
Tomatoes,  beets,  beans,  pumpkins,  corn, 

And  even  fruit  trees 


And  yes,  she  has  long  mistrusted 
That  a  cider  apple  tree 

In  bearing  there  to-day  is  hers, 
Or  at  least  may  be. 


Her  crop  was  a  miscellany 
When  all  was  said  and  done, 

A  little  bit  of  everything, 
A  great  deal  of  none. 


Now  when  she  sees  in  the  village 

How  village  things  go, 
Just  when  it  seems  to  come  in  right, 

She  says,  "  /  know ! 


A  GIRL'S  GARDEN  47 


It's  as  when  I  was  a  farmer " 

Oh,  never  by  way  of  advice! 

And  she  never  sins  by  telling  the  tale 
To  the  same  person  twice. 


THE  EXPOSED  NEST 

You  were  forever  finding  some  new  play. 
So  when  I  saw  you  down  on  hands  and  knees 
In  the  meadow,  busy  with  the  new-cut  hay, 
Trying,  I  thought,  to  set  it  up  on  end, 
I  went  to  show  you  how  to  make  it  stay, 
If  that  was  your  idea,  against  the  breeze, 
And,  if  you  asked  me,  even  help  pretend 
To  make  it  root  again  and  grow  afresh. 
But  'twas  no  make-believe  with  you  to-day, 
Nor  was  the  grass  itself  your  real  concern, 
Though  I  found  your  hand  full  of  wilted  fern, 
Steel-bright   June-grass,   and   blackening   heads   of   clover. 
'Twas  a  nest  full  of  young  birds  on  the  ground 
The  cutter -bar  had  just  gone  champing  over 
(Miraculously  without  tasting  flesh) 
And  left  defenseless  to  the  heat  and  light. 
You  wanted  to  restore  them  to  their  right 
Of  something  interposed  between  their  sight 
And  too  much  world  at  once  —  could  means  be  found. 
The  way  the  nest-full  every  time  we  stirred 
Stood  up  to  us  as  to  a  mother-bird 
Whose  coming  home  has  been  too  long  deferred, 
Made  me  ask  would  the  mother-bird  return 
And  care  for  them  in  such  a  change  of  scene 
And  might  our  meddling  make  her  more  afraid. 
That  was  a  thing  we  could  not  wait  to  learn. 
We  saw  the  risk  we  took  in  doing  good, 
But  dared  not  spare  to  do  the  best  we  could 
Though  harm  should  come  of  it;  so  built  the  screen 

48 


THE  EXPOSED  NEST  49 

You  had  begun,  and  gave  them  back  their  shade. 

All  this  to  prove  we  cared.     Why  is  there  then 

No  more  to  tell?     We  turned  to  other  things. 

I  haven't  any  memory  —  have  you?  — 

Of  ever  coming  to  the  place  again 

To  see  if  the  birds  lived  the  first  night  through, 

And  so  at  last  to  learn  to  use  their  wings. 


"OUT,  OUT—" 

THE  buzz-saw  snarled  and  rattled  in  the  yard 
And  made  dust  and  dropped  stove-length  sticks  of  wood, 
Sweet-scented  stuff  when  the  breeze  drew  across  it. 
..And  from  there  those  that  lifted  eyes  could  count 
Five  mountain  ranges  one  behind  the  other 
Under  the  sunset  far  into  Vermont. 
And  the  saw  snarled  and  rattled,  snarled  and  rattled, 
As  it  ran  light,  or  had  to  bear  a  load. 
And  nothing  happened:  day  was  all  but  done. 
Call  it  a  day,  I  wish  they  might  have  said 
To  please  the  boy  by  giving  him  the  half  hour 
That  a  boy  counts  so  much  when  saved  from  work. 
His  sister  stood  beside  them  in  her  apron 
To  tell  them  "  Supper."     At  the  word,  the  saw, 
As  if  to  prove  saws  knew  what  supper  meant, 
Leaped  out  at  the  boy's  hand,  or  seemed  to  leap  — 
He  must  have  given  the  hand.     However  it  was, 
Neither  refused  the  meeting.     But  the  hand! 
The  boy's  first  outcry  was  a  rueful  laugh, 
As  he  swung  toward  them  holding  up  the  hand 
Half  in  appeal,  but  half  as  if  to  keep 
The  life  from  spilling.     Then  the  boy  saw  all  — 
Since  he  was  old  enough  to  know,  big  boy 
Doing  a  man's  work,  though  a  child  at  heart  — 
He  saw  all  spoiled.     "  Don't  let  him  cut  my  hand  off  — - 
The  doctor,  when  he  comes.     Don't  let  him,  sister!  " 
So.     But  the  hand  was  gone  already. 
The  doctor  put  him  in  the  dark  of  ether. 
He  lay  and  puffed  his  lips  out  with  his  breath. 

50 


"  OUT,  OUT  — "  51 

And  then  —  the  watcher  at  his  pulse  took  fright. 
No  one  believed.     They  listened  at  his  heart. 
Little  —  less  —  nothing !  —  and  that  ended  it. 
No  more  to  build  on  there.     And  they,  since  they 
Were  not  the  one  dead,  turned  to  their  affairs. 


BROWN'S  DESCENT 

OR 
THE   WILLY-NILLY   SLIDE 

BROWN  lived  at  such  a  lofty  farm 
That  everyone  for  miles  could  see 

His  lantern  when  he  did  his  chores 
In  winter  after  half-past  three. 

And  many  must  have  seen  him  make 
His  wild  descent  from  there  one  night, 

'Cross  lots,  'cross  walls,  'cross  everything, 
Describing  rings  of  lantern  light. 

Between  the  house  and  barn  the  gale 
Got  him  by  something  he  had  on 

And  blew  him  out  on  the  icy  crust 

That  cased  the  world,  and  he  was  gone! 

Walls  were  all  buried,  trees  were  few: 
He  saw  no  stay  unless  he  stove 

A  hole  in  somewhere  with  his  heel. 
But  though  repeatedly  he  strove 

And  stamped  and  said  things  to  himself, 
And  sometimes  something  seemed  to  yield, 

He  gained  no  foothold,  but  pursued 
His  journey  down  from  field  to  fields 
52 


BROWN'S  DESCENT  53 

Sometimes  he  came  with  arms  outspread 

Like  wings,  revolving  in  the  scene 
Upon  his  longer  axis,  and 

With  no  small  dignity  of  mien. 


Faster  or  slower  as  he  chanced, 
Sitting  or  standing  as  he  chose, 

According  as  he  feared  to  risk 

His  neck,  or  thought  to  spare  his  clothes, 


He  never   let   the   lantern   drop. 

And  some  exclaimed  who  saw  afar 
The  figures  he  described  with  it, 

"  I  wonder  what  those  signals  are 


Brown  makes  at  such  an  hour  of  night! 

He's  celebrating  something  strange. 
I  wonder  if  he's  sold  his  farm, 

Or  been  made  Master  of  the  Grange." 


He  reeled,  he  lurched,  he  bobbed,  he  checked; 

He  fell  and  made  the  lantern  rattle 
(But  saved  the  light  from  going  out.) 

So  half-way  down  he  fought  the  battle 


Incredulous  of  his  own  bad  luck. 

And  then  becoming  reconciled 
To  everything,  he  gave  it  up 

And  came  down  like  a  coasting  child. 


54  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

"Well  —  I  —  be— "  that  was  all  he  said, 
As  standing  in  the  river  road, 

He  looked  back  up  the  slippery  slope 
(Two  miles  it  was)  to  his  abode. 


Sometimes  as  an  authority 
On  motor-cars,  I'm  asked  if  I 

Should  say  our  stock  was  petered  out, 
And  this  is  my  sincere  reply: 


Yankees  are  what  they  always  were. 

Don't  think  Brown  ever  gave  up  hope 
Of   getting   home   again   because 

He  couldn't  climb  that  slippery  slope; 


Or  even  thought  of  standing  there 

Until  the  January  thaw 
Should  take  the  polish  off  the  crust. 

He  bowed  with  grace  to  natural  law, 


And  then  went  round  it  on  his  feet, 
After  the  manner  of  our  stock; 

Not  much  concerned  for  those  to  whom, 
At   that  particular   time  o'clock, 


It  must  have  looked  as  if  the  course 
He  steered  was  really  straight  away 

From  that  which  he  was  headed  for  — 
Not  much  concerned  for  them,  I  say; 


BROWN'S  DESCENT  55 

No  more  so  than  became  a  man  — 

And  politician  at  odd  seasons. 
I've  kept  Brown  standing  in  the  cold 

While  I  invested  him  with  reasons; 


But  now  he  snapped  his  eyes  three  times; 

Then  shook  his  lantern,  saying,  "  He's 
'Bout  out!  "  and  took  the  long  way  home 

By  road,  a  matter  of  several  miles. 


THE  GUM-GATHERER 

THERE  overtook  me  and  drew  me  in 
To  his  down-hill,  early-morning  stride, 
And  set  me  five  miles  on  my  road 
Better  than  if  he  had  had  me  ride, 
A  man  with  a  swinging  bag  for  load 
And  half  the  bag  wound  round  his  hand. 
We  talked  like  barking  above  the  din 
Of  water  we  walked  along  beside. 
And  for  my  telling  him  where  I'd  been 
And  where  I  lived  in  mountain  land 
To  be  coming  home  the  way  I  was, 
He  told  me  a  little  about  himself. 
He  came  from  higher  up  in  the  pass 
Where  the  grist  of  the  new-beginning  brooks 
Is  blocks  split  off  the  mountain  mass  — 
And  hopeless  grist  enough  it  looks 
Ever  to  grind  to  soil  for  grass. 
(The  way  it  is  will  do  for  moss.) 
There  he  had  built  his  stolen  shack. 
It  had  to  be  a  stolen  shack 
Because  of  the  fears  of  fire  and  loss 
That  trouble  the  sleep  of  lumber  folk: 
Visions  of  half  the  world  burned  black 
And  the  sun  shrunken  yellow  in  smoke. 
We  know  who  when  they  come  to  town 
Bring  berries  under  the  wagon  seat, 
Or  a  basket  of  eggs  between  their  feet; 
What  this  man  brought  in  a  cotton  sack 
Was  gum,  the  gum  of  the  mountain  spruce. 
56 


THE  GUM-GATHERER  57 

He  showed  me  lumps  of  the  scented  stuff 
Like  uncut  jewels,  dull  and  rough. 
It  comes  to   market  golden   brown; 
But  turns  to  pink  between  the  teeth. 


I  told  him  this  is  a  pleasant  life 
To  set  your  breast  to  the  bark  of  trees 
That  all  your  days  are  dim  beneath, 
And  reaching  up  with  a  little  knife, 
To  loose  the  resin  and  take  it  down 
And  bring  it  to  market  when  you  please. 


THE  LINE-GANG 

HERE  come  the  line-gang  pioneering  by. 
They  throw  a  forest  down  less  cut  than  broken. 
They  plant  dead  trees  for  living,  and  the  dead 
They  string  together  with  a  living  thread. 
They  string  an  instrument  against  the  sky 
Wherein  words  whether  beaten  out  or  spoken 
Will  run  as  hushed  as  when  they  were  a  thought. 
But  in  no  hush  they  string  it:  they  go  past 
With  shouts  afar  to  pull  the  cable  taut, 
To  hold  it  hard  until  they  make  it  fast, 
To  ease  away  —  they  have  it.     With  a  laugh, 
An  oath  of  towns  that  set  the  wild  at  naught 
They  bring  the  telephone  and  telegraph. 


58 


THE  VANISHING  RED 

HE  is  said  to  have  been  the  last  Red  Man 

In  Acton.     And  the  Miller  is  said  to  have  laughed  — 

If  you  like  to  call  such  a  sound  a  laugh. 

But  he  gave  no  one  else  a  laugher's  license. 

For  he  turned  suddenly  grave  as  if  to  say, 

"  Whose  business, —  if  I  take  it  on  myself, 

Whose  business  —  but  why  talk  round  the  barn?  — 

When  it's  just  that  I  hold  with  getting  a  thing  done  with." 

You  can't  get  back  and  see  it  as  he  saw  it. 

It's  too  long  a  story  to  go  into  now. 

You'd  have  to  have  been  there  and  lived  it. 

Then  you  wouldn't  have  looked  on  it  as  just  a  matter 

Of  who  began  it  between  the  two  races. 


Some  guttural  exclamation  of  surprise 

The  Red  Man  gave  in  poking  about  the  mill 

Over  the  great  big  thumping  shuffling  mill-stone 

Disgusted  the  Miller  physically  as  coming 

From  one  who  had  no  right  to  be  heard  from. 

"  Come,  John,"  he  said,  "  you  want  to  see  the  wheel  pit? 


He  took  him  down  below  a  cramping  rafter, 
And  showed  him,  through  a  manhole  in  the  floor, 
The  water  in  desperate  straits  like  frantic  fish, 
Salmon  and  sturgeon,  lashing  with  their  tails. 
Then  he  shut  down  the  trap  door  with  a  ring  in  it 
That  jangled  even  above  the  general  noise, 

59 


60  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

And  came  up  stairs  alone  —  and  gave  that  laugh, 
And  said  something  to  a  man  with  a  meal-sack 
That  the  man  with  the  meal-sack  didn't  catch  —  then. 
Oh,  yes,  he  showed  John  the  wheel  pit  all  right. 


SNOW 

THE  three  stood  listening  to  a  fresh  access 
Of  wind  that  caught  against  the  house  a  moment, 
Gulped  snow,  and  then  blew  free  again  —  the  Coles 
Dressed,  but  dishevelled  from  some  hours  of  sleep, 
Meserve  belittled  in  the  great  skin  coat  he  wore. 

Meserve  was  first  to  speak.     He  pointed  backward 
Over  his  shoulder  with  his  pipe-stem,  saying, 
"  You  can  just  see  it  glancing  off  the  roof 
Making  a  great  scroll  upward  toward  the  sky, 
Long  enough  for  recording  all  our  names  on. — 
I  think  I'll  just  call  up  my  wife  and  tell  her 
I'm  here  —  so  far  —  and  starting  on  again. 
I'll  call  her  softly  so  that  if  she's  wise 
And  gone  to  sleep,  she  needn't  wake  to  answer." 
Three  times  he  barely  stirred  the  bell,  then  listened. 
"Why,  Lett,  still  up?     Lett,  I'm  at  Cole's.     I'm  late. 
I  called  you  up  to  say  Good-night  from  here 
Before  I  went  to  say  Good -morning  there. — 
I  thought  I  would. —     I  know,  but,  Lett  —  I  know  — 
I  could,  but  what's  the  sense?     The  rest  won't  be 
So  bad. —     Give  me  an  hour  for  it. —     Ho,  ho, 
Three  hours  to  here!     But  that  was  all  up  hill; 
The  rest  is  down. —     Why  no,  no,  not  a  wallow: 
They  kept  their  heads  and  took  their  time  to  it 
Like  darlings,  both  of  them.     They're  in  the  barn.— • 
My  dear,  I'm  coming  just  the  same.     I  didn't 
Call  you  to  ask  you  to  invite  me  home. — " 
He  lingered  for  some  word  she  wouldn't  say, 

61 


62  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

Said  it  at  last  himself,  "  Good-night,"  and  then, 

Getting  no  answer,  closed  the  telephone. 

The  three  stood  in  the  lamplight  round  the  table 

With  lowered  eyes  a  moment  till  he  said, 

"  I'll  just  see  how  the  horses  are." 

"  Yes,  do," 

Both  the  Coles  said  together.     Mrs.  Cole 
Added:     "You  can  judge  better  after  seeing. — 
I  want  you  here  with  me,  Fred.     Leave  him  here, 
Brother  Meserve.     You  know  to  find  your  way 
Out  through  the  shed." 

"  I  guess  I  know  my  way, 
I  guess  I  know  where  I  can  find  my  name 
Carved  in  the  shed  to  tell  me  who  I  am 
If  it  don't  tell  me  where  I  am.     I  used 
To  play—" 

"  You  tend  your  horses  and  come  back. 
Fred  Cole,  you're  going  to  let  him!  " 

"Well,  aren't  you? 
How  can  you  help  yourself?  " 

"  I  called  him  Brother. 
Why  did  I  call  him  that?  " 

"  It's  right  enough. 

That's  all  you  ever  heard  him  called  round  here. 
He  seems  to  have  lost  off  his  Christian  name." 

"Christian  enough  I  should  call  that  myself. 
He  took  no  notice,  did  he?     Well,  at  least 
I  didn't  use  it  out  of  love  of  him, 


SNOW  63 

The  dear  knows.     I   detest  the  thought  of  him 

With  his  ten  children  under  ten  years  old. 

I  hate  his  wretched  little  Racker  Sect, 

All's  ever  I  heard  of  it,  which  isn't  much. 

But  that's  not  saying  —  Look,  Fred  Cole,  it's  twelve, 

Isn't  it,  now?     He's  been  here  half  an  hour. 

He  says  he  left  the  village  store  at  nine. 

Three  hours  to  do  four  miles  —  a  mile  an  hour 

Or  not  much  better.     Why,  it  doesn't  seem 

As  if  a  man  could  move  that  slow  and  move. 

Try  to  think  what  he  did  with  all  that  time. 

And  three  miles  more  to  go!  " 

"  Don't  let  him  go. 

Stick  to  him,  Helen.     Make  him  answer  you. 
That  sort  of  man  talks  straight  on  all  his  life 
From  the  last  thing  he  said  himself,  stone  deaf 
To  anything  anyone  else  may  say. 

I  should  have  thought,  though,  you  could  make  him  hear 
you." 

"What  is  he  doing  out  a  night  like  this? 
Why  can't  he  stay  at  home?  " 

"  He  had  to  preach." 
"  It's  no  night  to  be  out." 

"He  may  be  small, 
He  may  be  good,  but  one  thing's  sure,  he's  tough." 

"And  strong  of  stale  tobacco." 

"He'll  pull  through.' 


64  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

"You  only  say  so.     Not  another  house 

Or  shelter  to  put  into  from  this  place 

To  theirs.     I'm  going  to  call  his  wife  again." 

"  Wait  and  he  may.     Let's  see  what  he  will  do. 
Let's  see  if  he  will  think  of  her  again. 
But  then  I  doubt  he's  thinking  of  himself 
He  doesn't  look  on  it  as  anything." 

"He  shan't  go  — there!" 

"  It  is  a  night,  my  dear/' 

"One  thing:  he  didn't  drag  God  into  it." 
"He  don't  consider  it  a  case  for  God." 

"You  think  so,  do  you?     You  don't  know  the  kind. 
He's  getting  up  a  miracle  this  minute. 
Privately  —  to  himself,  right  now,  he's  thinking 
He'll  make  a  case  of  it  if  he  succeeds, 
But  keep  still  if  he  fails." 

"  Keep  still  all  over. 
He'll  be  dead  —  dead  and  buried." 

"Such  a  trouble! 

Not  but  I've  every  reason  not  to  care 
What  happens  to  him  if  it  only  takes 
Some  of  the  sanctimonious  conceit 
Out  of  one  of  those  pious  scalawags." 

"Nonsense  to  that!     You  want  to  see  him  safe." 

"  You  like  the  runt." 

"  Don't  you  a  little?  " 


SNOW  65 

"  Well, 

I  don't  like  what  he's  doing,  which  is  what 
You  like,  and  like  him  for." 

"Oh,  yes  you  do. 

You  like  your  fun  as  well  as  anyone; 
Only  you  women  have  to  put  these  airs  on 
To  impress  men.     You've  got  us  so  ashamed 
Of  being  men  we  can't  look  at  a  good  fight 
Between  two  boys  and  not  feel  bound  to  stop  it. 
Let  the  man  freeze  an  ear  or  two,  I  say. — 
He's  here.     I  leave  him  all  to  you.     Go  in 
And  save  his  life. —     All  right,  come  in,  Meserve. 
Sit  down,  sit  down.     How  did  you  find  the  horses?  " 

"  Fine,  fine." 

"And  ready  for  some  more?     My  wife  here 
Says  it  won't  do.     You've  got  to  give  it  up." 

"Won't  you  to  please  me?     Please!     If  I  say  please? 
Mr.  Meserve,  I'll  leave  it  to  your  wife. 
What  did  your  wife  say  on  the  telephone?  " 

Meserve  seemed  to  heed  nothing  but  the  lamp 
Or  something  not  far  from  it  on  the  table. 
By  straightening  out  and  lifting  a  forefinger, 
He  pointed  with  his  hand  from  where  it  lay 
Like  a  white  crumpled  spider  on  his  knee: 
"  That  leaf  there  in  your  open  book!     It  moved 
Just  then,  I  thought.     It's  stood  erect  like  that, 
There  on  the  table,  ever  since  I  came, 
Trying  to  turn  itself  backward  or  forward, 
I've  had  my  eye  on  it  to  make  out  which ; 
Jf  forward,  then  it's  with  a  friend's  impatience  — 


66  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

You  see  I  know  —  to  get  you  on  to  things 

It  wants  to  see  how  you  will  take,  if  backward 

It's  from  regret  for  something  you  have  passed 

And  failed  to  see  the  good  of.     Never  mind, 

Things  must  expect  to  come  in  front  of  us 

A  many  times  —  I  don't  say  just  how  many  — 

That  varies  with  the  things  —  before  we  see  them. 

One  of  the  lies  would  make  it  out  that  nothing 

Ever  presents  itself  before  us  twice. 

Where  would  we  be  at  last  if  that  were  so? 

Our  very  life  depends  on  everything's 

Recurring  till  we  answer  from  within. 

The  thousandth  time  may  prove  the  charm. —     That  leaf! 

It  can't  turn  either  way.     It  needs  the  wind's  help. 

But  the  wind  didn't  move  it  if  it  moved. 

It  moved  itself.     The  wind's  at  naught  in  here. 

It  couldn't  stir  so  sensitively  poised 

A  thing  as  that.     It  couldn't  reach  the  lamp 

To  get  a  puff  of  black  smoke  from  the  flame, 

Or  blow  a  rumple  in  the  collie's  coat. 

You  make  a  little  foursquare  block  of  air, 

Quiet  and  light  and  warm,  in  spite  of  all 

The  illimitable  dark  and  cold  and  storm, 

And  by  so  doing  give  these  three,  lamp,  dog, 

And  book-leaf,  that  keep  near  you,  their  repose; 

Though  for  all  anyone  can  tell,  repose 

May  be  the  thing  you  haven't,  yet  you  give  it. 

So  false  it  is  that  what  we  haven't  we  can't  give; 

So  false,  that  what  we  always  say  is  true. 

I'll  have  to  turn  the  leaf  if  no  one  else  will. 

It  won't  lie  down.     Then  let  it  stand.     Who  cares?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  want  to  hurry  you,  Meserve, 

But  if  you're  going —     Say  you'll  stay,  you  know? 

But  let  me  raise  this  curtain  on  a  scene, 


SNOW  67 

And  show  you  how  it's  piling  up  against  you. 
You  see  the  snow-white  through  the  white  of  frost? 
Ask  Helen  how  far  up  the  sash  it's  climbed 
Since  last  we  read  the  gage." 

"  It  looks  as  if 

Some  pallid  thing  had  squashed  its  features  flat 
And  its  eyes  shut  with  overeagerness 
To  see  what  people  found  so  interesting 
In  one  another,  and  had  gone  to  sleep 
Of  its  own  stupid  lack  of  understanding, 
Or  broken  its  white  neck  of  mushroom  stuff 
Short  off,  and  died  against  the  window-pane." 

"  Brother  Meserve,  take  care,  you'll  scare  yourself 
More  than  you  will  us  with  such  nightmare  talk. 
It's  you  it  matters  to,  because  it's  you 
Who  have  to  go  out  into  it  alone." 

"Let  him  talk,  Helen,  and  perhaps  he'll  stay." 

"  Before  you  drop  the  curtain  —  I'm  reminded : 

You  recollect  the  boy  who  came  out  here 

To  breathe  the  air  one  winter  —  had  a  room 

Down  at  the  Averys'?     Well,  one  sunny  morning 

After  a  downy  storm,  he  passed  our  place 

And  found  me  banking  up  the  house  with  snow. 

And  I  was  burrowing  in  deep  for  warmth, 

Piling  it  well  above  the  window-sills. 

The  snow  against  the  window  caught  his  eye. 

*  Hey,  that's  a  pretty  thought ' —  those  were  his  words. 

*  So  you  can  think  it's  six  feet  deep  outside, 
While  you  sit  warm  and  read  up  balanced  rations. 
You  can't  get  too  much  winter  in  the  winter.' 
Those  were  his  words.     And  he  went  home  and  all 


68  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

But  banked  the  daylight  out  of  Avery's  windows. 
Now  you  and  I  would  go  to  no  such  length. 
At  the  same  time  you  can't  deny  it  makes 
It  not  a  mite  worse,  sitting  here,  we  three, 
Playing  our  fancy,  to  have  the  snowline  run 
So  high  across  the  pane  outside.     There  where 
There  is  a  sort  of  tunnel  in  the  frost 
More  like  a  tunnel  than  a  hole  —  way  down 
At  the  far  end  of  it  you  see  a  stir 
And  quiver  like  the  frayed  edge  of  the  drift 
Blown  in  the  wind.     I  like  that  —  I  like  that. 
Well,  now  I  leave  you,  people." 

"  Come,  Meserve, 

We  thought  you  were  deciding  not  to  go  — 
The  ways  you  found  to  say  the  praise  of  comfort 
And  being  where  you  are.     You  want  to  stay." 

"  I'll  own  it's  cold  for  such  a  fall  of  snow. 
This  house  is  frozen  brittle,  all  except 
This  room  you  sit  in.     If  you  think  the  wind 
Sounds  further  off,  it's  not  because  it's  dying; 
You're  further  under  in  the  snow  —  that's  all  — 
And  feel  it  less.     Hear  the  soft  bombs  of  dust 
It  bursts  against  us  at  the  chimney  mouth, 
And  at  the  eaves.     I  like  it  from  inside 
More  than  I  shall  out  in  it.     But  the  horses 
Are  rested  and  it's  time  to  say  good-night, 
And  let  you  get  to  bed  again.     Good-night, 
Sorry  I  had  to  break  in  on  your  sleep." 

"  Lucky  for  you  you  did.     Lucky  for  you 

You  had  us  for  a  half-way  station 

To  stop  at.     If  you  were  the  kind  of  man 

Paid  heed  to  women,  you'd  take  my  advice 

And  for  your  family's  sake  stay  where  you  are. 


SNOW  69 

But  what  good  is  my  saying  it  over  and  over? 
You've  done  more  than  you  had  a  right  to  think 
You  could  do  —  now.     You  know  the  risk  you  take 
In  going  on." 

"  Our  snow-storms  as  a  rule 
Aren't  looked  on  as  man-killers,  and  although 
I'd  rather  be  the  beast  that  sleeps  the  sleep 
Under  it  all,  his  door  sealed  up  and  lost, 
Than  the  man  fighting  it  to  keep  above  it, 
Yet  think  of  the  small  birds  at  roost  and  not 
In  nests.     Shall  I  be  counted  less  than  they  are? 
Their  bulk  in  water  would  be  frozen  rock 
In  no  time  out  to-night.     And  yet  to-morrow 
They  will  come  budding  boughs  from  tree  to  tree 
Flirting  their  wings  and  saying  Chickadee, 
As  if  not  knowing  what  you  meant  by  the  word  storm." 

"  But  why  when  no  one  wants  you  to  go  on  ? 

Your  wife  —  she  doesn't  want  you  to.     We  don't, 

And  you  yourself  don't  want  to.     Who  else  is  there?  " 

"  Save  us  from  being  cornered  by  a  woman. 
Well,  there's" — She  told  Fred  afterward  that  in 
The  pause  right  there,  she  thought  the  dreaded  word 
Was  coming,  "  God."     But  no,  he  only  said 
"  Well,  there's  —  the  storm.     That  says  I  must  go  on. 
That  wants  me  as  a  war  might  if  it  came. 
Ask  any  man." 

He  threw  her  that  as  something 
To  last  her  till  he  got  outside  the  door. 
He  had  Cole  with  him  to  the  barn  to  see  him  off. 
When  Cole  returned  he  found  his  wife  still  standing 
Beside  the  table  near  the  open  book, 
Not  reading  it. 


70  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

"Well,  what  kind  of  a  man 
Do  you  call  that?  "  she  said. 

"He  had  the  gift 
Of  words,  or  is  it  tongues,  I  ought  to  say?  " 

"  Was  ever  such  a  man  for  seeing  likeness?  " 

"  Or  disregarding  people's  civil  questions  — 

What?     We've  found  out  in  one  hour  more  about  him 

Than  we  had  seeing  him  pass  by  in  the  road 

A  thousand  times.     If  that's  the  way  he  preaches! 

You  didn't  think  you'd  keep  him  after  all. 

Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  you.     He  didn't  leave  you 

Much  say  in  the  matter,  and  I'm  just  as  glad 

We're  not  in  for  a  night  of  him.     No  sleep 

If  he  had  stayed.     The  least  thing  set  him  going. 

It's  quiet  as  an  empty  church  without  him." 

"  But  how  much  better  off  are  we  as  it  is  ? 
We'll  have  to  sit  here  till  we  know  he's  safe." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you'll  want  to,  but  I  shouldn't. 
He  knows  what  he  can  do,  or  he  wouldn't  try. 
Get  into  bed  I  say,  and  get  some  rest. 
He  won't  come  back,  and  if  he  telephones, 
It  won't  be  for  an  hour  or  two." 

"Well  then. 

We  can't  be  any  help  by  sitting  here 
And  living  his  fight  through  with  him,  I  suppose." 


Cole  had  been  telephoning  in  the  dark. 


SNOW  71 

Mrs.  Cole's  voice  came  from  an  inner  room: 
"  Did  she  call  you  or  you  call  her?  " 

"She  me. 

You'd  better  dress:  you  won't  go  back  to  bed. 
We  must  have  been  asleep:  it's  three  and  after." 

"  Had  she  been  ringing  long?     I'll  get  my  wrapper. 
I  want  to  speak  to  her." 

"  All  she  said  was, 
He  hadn't  come  and  had  he  really  started." 

"  She  knew  he  had,  poor  thing,  two  hours  ago." 
"  He  had  the  shovel.     He'll  have  made  a  fight." 
"  Why  did  I  ever  let  him  leave  this  house!  " 

"  Don't  begin  that.     You  did  the  best  you  could 
To  keep  him  —  though  perhaps  you  didn't  quite 
Conceal  a  wish  to  see  him  show  the  spunk 
To  disobey  you.     Much  his  wife'll  thank  you." 

"  Fred,  after  all  I  said !     You  shan't  make  out 
That  it  was  any  way  but  what  it  was. 
Did  she  let  on  by  any  word  she  said 
She  didn't  thank  me?  " 

"  When  I  told  her  *  Gone,' 

4  Well  then,'  she  said,  and  '  Well  then  '—  like  a  threat. 
And  then  her  voice  came  scraping  slow :  '  Oh,  you, 
Why  did  you  let  him  go '?  " 

"Asked  why  we  let  him? 

You  let  me  there.     I'll  ask  her  why  she  let  him. 
She  didn't  dare  to  speak  when  he  was  here. 


72  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

Their  number's  —  twenty-one?     The  thing  won't  work. 
Someone's  receiver's  down.     The  handle  stumbles. 

The  stubborn  thing,  the  way  it  jars  your  arm! 

It's  theirs.     She's  dropped  it  from  her  hand   and  gone." 

"  Try  speaking.     Say  '  Hello  '!  " 

"Hello.     Hello." 
"What  do  you  hear?" 

"  I  hear  an  empty  room  — 

You  know  —  it  sounds  that  way.     And  yes,  I  hear  — 
I  think  I  hear  a  clock  —  and  windows  rattling. 
No  step  though.     If  she's  there  she's  sitting  down." 

"  Shout,  she  may  hear  you." 

"  Shouting  is  no  good." 
"  Keep  speaking  then." 

"Hello.     Hello.     Hello. 
You  don't  suppose — ?     She  wouldn't  go  out  doors?  " 

"  I'm  half  afraid  that's  just  what  she  might  do." 

"And  leave  the  chifldren?  " 

"  Wait  and  call  again. 

You  can't  hear  whether  she  has  left  the  door 
Wide  open  and  the  wind's  blown  out  the  lamp 
And  the  fire's  died  and  the  room's  dark  and  cold?  " 


SNOW  73 

"  One  of  two  things,  either  she's  gone  to  bed 
Or  gone  out  doors." 

"  In  which  case  both  are  lost. 

Do  you  know  what  she's  like?     Have  you  ever  met  her? 
It's  strange  she  doesn't  want  to  speak  to  us." 

"  Fred,  see  if  you  can  hear  what  I  hear.     Come." 
"A  clock  maybe." 

"  Don't  you  hear  something  else?  " 

"  Not  talking." 

"  No." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  hear  —  what  is  it?  " 
"What  do  you  say  it  is?  " 

"A  baby's  crying! 
Frantic  it  sounds,  though  muffled  and  far  off." 

"  Its  mother  wouldn't  let  it  cry  like  that, 
Not  if  she's  there," 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?  " 

"There's  only  one  thing  possible  to  make, 

That  is,  assuming  —  that  she  has  gone  out. 

Of  course  she  hasn't  though."     They  both  sat  down 

Helpless.     "There's  nothing  we  can  do  till   morning." 

"  Fred,  I  shan't  let  you  think  of  going  out." 


74  MOUNTAIN  INTERVAL 

"  Hold   on."     The  double  bell  began  to   chirp. 

They  started  up.     Fred  took  the  telephone. 

"Hello,  Meserve.     You're  there,  then! — And  your  wife? 

Good !     Why  I  asked  —  she  didn't  seem  to  answer. 
He  says  she  went  to  let  him  in  the  barn. — 
We're  glad.     Oh,  say  no  more  about  it,  man. 
Drop  in  and  see  us  when  you're  passing." 

"  Well, 

She  has  him  then,  though  what  she  wants  him  for 
I  don't  see." 

"  Possibly  not  for  herself. 
Maybe  she  only  wants  him  for  the  children." 

"  The  whole  to-do  seems  to  have  been  for  nothing. 

What  spoiled  our  night  was  to  him  just  his  fun. 

What  did  he  come  in  for?  —  To  talk  and  visit? 

Thought  he'd  just  call  to  tell  us  it  was  snowing. 

If  he  thinks  he  is  going  to  make  our  house 

A  halfway  coffee  house  'twixt  town  and  nowhere " 

"  I  thought  you'd  feel  you'd  been  too  much  concerned." 
"You  think  you  haven't  been  concerned  yourself." 

"  If  you  mean  he  was  inconsiderate 
To  rout  us  out  to  think  for  him  at  midnight 
And  then  take  our  advice  no  more  than  nothing, 
Why,  I  agree  with  you.     But  let's  forgive  him. 
We've  had  a  share  in  one  night  of  his  life. 
What'll  you  bet  he  ever  calls  again?  " 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  TREES 

I  wonder  about  the  trees. 

Why  do  we  wish  to  bear 

Forever  the  noise  of  these 

More  than  another  noise 

So  close  to  our  dwelling  place? 

We  suffer  them  by  the  day 

Till  we  lose  all  measure  of  pace, 

And  fixity  in  our  joys, 

And  acquire  a  listening  air. 

They  are  that  that  talks  of  going 

But  never  gets  away; 

And  that  talks  no  less  for  knowing, 

As  it  grows  wiser  and  older, 

That  now  it  means  to  stay. 

My  feet  tug  at  the  floor 

And  my  head  sways  to  my  shoulder 

Sometimes  when  I  watch  trees  sway, 

From  the  window  or  the  door. 

I  shall  set  forth  for  somewhere, 

I  shall  make  the  reckless  choice 

Some  day  when  they  are  in  voice 

And  tossing  so  as  to  scare 

The  white  clouds  over  them  on. 

I  shall  have  less  to  say, 

But  I  shall  be  gone. 


76 


SOME  RECENT  POETRY 

Stephen  Vincent  Benet's  Heavens  and  Earth 

Thomas  Burke's  The  Song  Book  of  Quong  Lee  of  Limehouse 

Richard  Burton's  Poems  of  Earth's  Meaning 

Francis  Carlin's  My  Ireland 

The  Cairn  of  Stars 

Padraic  Colum's  Wild  Earth  and  Other  Poems 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling's  Wilderness  Songs 

Walter  De  La  Mare's  The  Listeners  and  Other  Poems 

Peacock  Pie.     IlPd  by  W.  H.  Robinson 

Motley  and  Other  Poems 

Collected  Poems  1901-1918.    2  Vols. 

Robert  Frost's  North  of  Boston 

Mountain  Interval.    New  Edition,  with  Portrait 
A  Boy's  Will 

Carl  Sandburg's  Cornhuskers 

Chicago  Poems 

Lew  Sarrett's  Many  Many  Moons 
Louis  Untermeyer's  These  Times 

and  Other  Poets 

Poems  of  Heinrich  Heine   (Translated) 
The  New  Era  in  American  Poetry 
Margaret  Widdemer'a  The  Old  Road  to  Paradise 
Factories  and  Other  Poems 


THE  HOME  BOOK  OF  VERSE 

American  and  English  1580-1918 
Selected  and  arranged  by  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson 
Third  Edition  Revised  and  Enlarged 

Over  4,000  pages  of  the  best  verse  in  English,  ranging  all  the 
way  from  the  classics  to  some  of  the  best  newspaper  verse  of 
to-day.  In  several  different  editions. 

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